


Adventures in Oblivion

by roebling



Category: Actor RPF, Star Trek RPF
Genre: Humor, M/M, One Shot, Ratings: PG, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-30
Updated: 2009-05-30
Packaged: 2017-10-23 02:58:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/245542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roebling/pseuds/roebling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>- or -</p><p>How Zachary Quinto Stopped Worrying and Learned to Love the Pine</p>
            </blockquote>





	Adventures in Oblivion

**Author's Note:**

> \- So originally this started as a story in which Zach ends up having to take care of / sleep with geeky and wonderful 18yo Chris Pine who is ~miraculously transported through time and space to teach some sort of life lesson to the various parties involved. I realized quickly such a story would involve more of a plot than I'm capable of. Instead I wrote this, which is pretty nutso anyway. Much, much, much thanks to both A and J, whose suggested summary for this was:  
> C: o I like u  
> Z: OMG NO WAI  
> C: YES WAI  
> Z: OMG fyne I like u too  
> C: :D  
> ~*~* Happily Ever After *~*~

The ache was like the ache that succeeded one's first work-out after weeks of indulgence. It was sore but sweet. They'd seen each other at the Golden Globes but that was too much show -- Chris dressed in a monkey suit, officially a leading man. He'd been nervous that night, and had a little too much to drink. This was different. Six o'clock in the morning, and the paparazzi were there, for them!

Chris was running late. That was not unusual. He strode through the automatic doors, breathless, wearing sweat pants and terrible clogs. He took off his sunglasses, and blinked. God, those blue eyes ... He saw Zach, and grinned. His round teeth were so strange, Zach thought. He'd thought that from the first.

"Hey," he said, a little too cheerful for the hour. He'd had a lot of caffeine already. Zach could tell.

Zach looked him up and down. "Nice shoes," he said.

***

It was a little like the first time they'd properly met. They knew each other casually, sure, said hello if they saw each other out because they both went to the same trainer, a guy named Josh who Zach originally met in a West Hollywood club very early one morning a long time before anyone cared who he was. He didn't know how Chris knew Josh, had never asked, but knew him through Josh as a familiar face, and that's all he'd been until a party one evening in autumn when the weather ought to have been cool but was still rather warm. They were all there to promote political engagement or civic activism or something. Zach had little patience with political types. He retreated to a corner and drank the watery margaritas the wait staff brought him and silently criticized people who were badly dressed.

Then this tall blond guy loomed awkwardly out of the darkness, slightly clumsy, and Zach sort of stepped back because the drinks were watery but he'd had many.

The guy said, "Hey, so what can you tell me?" He spoke too loudly.

Zach smiled condescendingly, even though he knew who Chris was, remembered seeing him before, even earlier in the evening standing next to some too-thin and too-striking young woman, a woman who had to have been a model, because she wasn't pretty enough not to be. He stirred the melting, piss-yellow ice in his plastic cup with the little red straw and wished there wasn't an open bar so he didn't feel obliged to drink. He knew what Chris meant, but he pretended not to know.

Chris put his hands in the front pockets of his jeans. They were dark and tight and Zach might have approved of that. Drunkenly Zach thought the guy's eyes were the blue of toilet bowl cleaner. It was hard to say if he was the kind of guy Zach deep down hated, the kind of guy who had always had things too easy and thought himself too funny and too good-looking and expected too much from everyone. Anyway, he was exactly the kind of guy who Zach would have been deeply and secretly in love with in high school or in college; very handsome and a little pretty and absolutely, definitely straight.

Chris didn't say anything or do anything, just stood there looking slightly uncomfortable and alarmed.

"I'm sorry," he said. "Perhaps you don't remember me. I'm one of the guys going in to read for Kirk next week. I was hoping you could give me some advice, if you think I'd fit the role, of course."

His hair was a little too long, a little dumb looking. Zach took a sip of his watery margarita. He licked the last few grains of coarse salt from the rim of his glass.

"You'll do," he said, and he smiled.

***

Zach always boarded as soon as they made the call for his flight. That way he could get down the aisle without tripping over anyone's feet or over any errant small children. Also there was plenty of room in the overhead compartments. He hated to have to squeeze his luggage. When he saw that he had a window seat, he silently exalted. Now he only had to sit next to one person. He settled down, got out his iPod , got out his magazines, got out his ear plugs and his hand sanitizer. He stared out the thick window at the tail lights blinking on the other planes, planes that would shortly depart for every other corner of the globe. That thought was reassuring. It was reassuring in a way to think of all the planes in the sky, each following a charted course through the clouds to a predetermined destination. That was order.

Someone sat down heavily beside him. Zach huffed, on principle. He picked up his copy of the Economist and paged through it. Honestly he thought it was a little dry, the articles a little long-winded, but it seemed like something someone would want to be seen reading. The person in the seat beside him coughed, shifted. There was nothing Zach hated more than a noisy seatmate. His general method was to completely ignore the existence of the person beside him, thus clearly telegraphing his utter disdain. After takeoff, he'd have his iPod and his music at least. The flight attendants appeared from wherever they were hidden and helped people stow their luggage. The person beside him coughed again, loudly, and leaned over so they were nearly shoulder to shoulder .... Zach turned, filled with rage.

But, oh, it was Chris, grinning at him and wearing a rather stupid hat.

"I asked them to put our seats together," he said, smiling.

"Oh," Zach said. He forced himself not to smile too. "Well, you better not be too loud. You best not snore, Pine!"

Chris mugged and then laughed. He was funny. Zach hated that Chris was so funny so he pretended that he was not amused. The no smoking signs lit up, and the seat belt signs. The captain spoke over the loudspeaker. They would take off soon. Zach liked to fly, liked airports and loved being in the air, but the take offs and landings were sometimes rough. He got a little nervous, sometimes. He fiddled with his iPod until the stewardess came around and gently chided him to put it away. Chris was being zen, sitting with his hands folded in his lap, his eyes dim, half lidded.

"What are you doing?" Zach hissed.

Chris didn't move, didn't look over. "I'm envisioning a perfect trip. It's a technique for success."

Zach snorted. "That does not work," he said.

Chris turned slowly. "And how do you know that?" he asked.

Zach didn't get the chance to say that he knew it because that kind of stuff was bullshit, because the engines, which had been whirring quietly, suddenly roared, and the plane backed slowly away from the terminal and taxied to the end of the runway. They barely had to wait at all, the benefit of an early flight. The worst moments were those in between when the captain stopped speaking and when the plane actually took off. Everything was in suspense. Zach held on to the armrests a little too firmly, until his knuckles were white. He glanced at Chris, whose eyes were closed, who sat still and composed, like a statue in particularly cheap and ugly clothing.

So the waiting was bad, but nothing was as lovely and miraculous as that first moment when the plane pulled free of gravity and lifted up! Zach loved that feeling of rising. He stared out the window as the lights of Los Angeles, visible but muted through the smog, grew smaller. The city became a map, and then a toy, and then so small it was nothing. Zach liked that. It was possible at times to think that the city, and sometimes much smaller areas contained within it, were the entirety of the universe. It was with glee and some joy that he watched them recede. He gave L.A. the finger out the window.

The flight attendants came around again. Zach admired them, had once very briefly considered going to flight attendant school himself before he realized that it meant that you basically got to have no life. Still, they all had a stern, pleasant, no-nonsense manner about them he found engaging, and he liked that although not all of them were pretty or especially young they all looked like they took very good care of themselves. He was going to ask for water but Chris preempted him, bought them both beers.

"Thanks, man," Zach said.

Chris smiled so that his eyes crinkled up, which is what he did if he wasn't thinking about it. "I figured we ought to celebrate," he said.

"Cheers," Zach said. They clinked their glasses together.

"To infinity and beyond!" Chris said.

"Wrong movie, asshole," Zach said, but he was laughing.

They played cards; War because Chris claimed he knew no other games, even though Zach had in fact played Poker with him before. Still, War was fine. Chris's reflexes were sharp. His eyes were fixed on the cards piled on Zach's tray table. Chris won the first three games. It made no sense that someone would be good at War. It was a fucking game of chance. Zach implied that he was cheating by memorizing the card sequences, then implied that he doubted Chris was capable of such a feat of memorization. They may have gotten a little loud. They may have drawn some untoward looks. Some people were trying to sleep. Chris won his fourth game in a row. He hooted gleefully. Zach was done with cards.

The flight was fourteen hours and one could amuse oneself for only so long. Zach read an article on tensions along the Indo-Pakistani border with some interest. Some terrible food was served. Chris claimed to be hungry but mostly poked at his food with the gnomish little silverware. Zach really was hungry and did eat his, although it didn't really taste of anything except salt. The heavy food made him drowsy. The flight attendants wheeled their metal carts down the aisles. Diminutive pillows and flimsy blankets were doled out. The cabin lights were dimmed. Chris started watching some stupid movie on the little screen. He had a high tolerance for low-brow comedy. Zach closed his eyes. He couldn't imagine anything beyond this flight ... the next day was opaque, a mystery. He tried Chris's technique, probably something he'd gleamed from some stupid self-help book. He had a mania for them, for reasons Zach could not imagine. The premiere was a potential blur of light, sound, the scarlet serpent of the red carpet. Zach hoped his suits wouldn't get too creased in his suitcase. He wondered if he shouldn't have packed one more ...

He didn't realize he'd fallen asleep until he woke up. The lights were still down. Outside, there was only night and the moon and far below the water. The cabin was still, silent, a pod of calm, hermetically-sealed. He blinked. His eyes were gummy. His neck was sore ... He'd been sleeping with his head resting on Chris's shoulder. Oh, God.

He sat right up, mortified. Of course, Chris was not asleep. He smiled at Zach, brilliant and brittle.

"Sleep well?" he asked.

Zach made some mortified, inaudible noise. "Sorry," he said, blinking again, drawing as far to the other side of his seat as he could.

"You looked so cute I didn't have the heart to wake you," Chris said. His tone was light, but his back was ramrod straight.

"Have you slept at all?" Zach asked.

Chris shook his head.

"You should sleep," Zach said.

It had been morning when they'd left California. They flew back through the night, pursued by the dawn. They'd lose a whole day in flying.

"Can't sleep," Chris said. "Too nervous."

Zach shifted, turned as much as he could. "Nervous? You? You're Captain James T. Kirk."

Chris laughed, softly. "I'm rapidly coming to that realization."

"I thought you had visualized the perfect trip," Zach said.

"Didn't work," he said, shortly. "This is a little beyond my realm of experience."

"You've done films before," Zach said. "What are you nervous about?"

Chris gave him a skeptical look. "Yeah, I've done films before. I've never done this."

Zach said, "None of us have done anything like this."

"No," Chris said. "Eh, I don't know. I don't like that it's out of my hands now."

"It's been out of you're hands for months, dude," Zach said, laughing a little.

"I know but it didn't matter until now," Chris said. "I'm not good with big picture things like this."

"Hey," Zach said. "Don't sweat that stuff. Even if this movie is the biggest flop since Gigli, it was still worth it, right?"

"Gigli? Seriously?" Chris asked, critical but unable to keep from smiling.

"I never miss a Christopher Walken film," Zach said, all seriousness.

Chris laughed at that, a little too loudly, and woke up the elderly man next to him, who gave them both a stern and disapproving look.

"Yeah," he said, eventually, after the old man had closed his eyes and started to once again wheeze softly. "It will still be worth it."

***

Sydney was hot, even in the winter, and in a different way than L.A.. Zach wondered if it was because of the hole in the ozone layer. He wondered if he ought to have packed stronger sunblock. He was awake, showered, dressed, ready to go, but he was dithering. He didn't relish press junkets. Reporters were a particularly tiresome breed, and internet reporters were even worse. Plus, he would be forced to talk about working with Mr. Nimoy in every single interview, and he respected Mr. Nimoy more than anyone except his mother, so he would have to refrain from making up implausible but amusing lies to tell the reporters as the day wore on.

Someone knocked on his door -- probably someone from PR. He sighed, long suffering, and went to answer, prepared to be difficult about the uncomfortable pillows he'd had to put up with. They had been perfectly acceptable in all honesty but he thought it was good to be a little dissatisfied. He opened the door, looked down and prepared to scowl ...

But it wasn't someone from PR, it was Chris, and Chris was Zach's height, or really one inch shorter but they'd had debates about that, endless debates that had never been successfully resolved because Chris claimed that Zach's hair gave him an unfair advantage.

"Good morning, buddy," Chris said. He was smiling. "You ready?"

"Sure," Zach said. He wasn't, really.

"Brought you coffee," Chris said, stepping past Zach into the room "Man, your room is nicer than mine." He twirled, kind of, looked all around. "You get all the perks."

Zach took a sip of the coffee. It was dark and sweet. He didn't know how Chris knew how he took his coffee, but it made something in his stomach curl.

There was another knock at the door. This time it really was a PR lady, tiny and thrumming with angry energy. She gave them both a look that said that she didn't understand why she'd found them both in Zach's room but she didn't care if it meant less for her to do. They followed her into the hall, stood patiently at her side while they waited for an elevator.

"Wait," Zach said. "Come here."

Chris waited, not smiling, really, but a smile was latent on his lips. Zach reached up. He could feel the heat from Chris's neck, smell his aftershave. He loosened Chris's tie and re-tied it.

"Can't have you looking sloppy," he said, and he smiled. Chris looked at him with those luminous eyes, and the elevator came and they all stepped in.

***

In the Paramount offices, which were decorated in Crate & Barrel chic, they had seen each other for the first time after Chris had been announced as Kirk. That made it sound more momentous than it was: a meeting withJJ and with some of the wonkish executive types at eleven o'clock one morning when Zach was badly hung over. Chris had come late, wearing torn jeans and dirty ChuckTaylors, had lingered awkwardly at the door a little before JJ stood and half mockingly lauded him as the man of the hour. His smile had been a little strained. He shook hands and he dropped onto the couch, next to Zach. Such meetings were torture. JJ and the executive with the large nose had an interminable discussion in very loud tones about something that seemed of utter inconsequence. Zach hadn't paid attention. Chris had shifted a little closer, sliding across the black leather.

"Hey," he'd said.

"Hi," Zach said.

"I wanted to say thanks for the tips," Chris said. "You gave me a leg up."

"No problem," Zach said. He hadn't really been in the mood for conversation but they were going to be bound together for life or something now, so it seemed best not to be rude.

"I think we're going to get along great," Chris said,a little dopey, and he'd draped his arm around Zach's shoulder.

Zach froze, not expecting the sudden warm weight on the back of his neck, and said, "I hope so."

***

He'd thought at first that Chris was just an affectionate person, because he was always patting Zach on the shoulder, shaking Zach's hand with vigor, slapping him on the knee, acting extraordinarily chummy in a way that Zach did not and would never act; a way, in fact, that made Zach somewhat nervous. Zach was not good at that kind ofhar-dee-har male bonding, didn't care about sports and didn't want to talk about them, and had never played contact football or Frisbee. Chris never tried to talk about those things either, but he was so ...dudely that his fluency in such topics seemed assured. He probably surfed. He probably played beer pong.

However, Zach realized quite quickly that Chris never cuffed JJ affectionately on the shoulder, never grabbed Karl's hand in excitement, didn't have a secret handshake with Anton. Casual inquiry revealed that Chris had a girlfriend with the preposterous name of Beau that he'd been dating casually for a long time. Zach elected not to read anything into the fact that his girlfriend had a male name. He was by all accounts a handsome, happy, heterosexual male who enjoyed prolonged physical contact with his equally male co-star. That was all. Nothing more than that. All in a day's work.

***

It got to a point where the Australian accents stopped being amusing and the questions got so repetitive that they bordered on torture. Chris was apparently allergic to Australia and kept sneezing loudly. Zach needed more water. Someone was going to have to make something happen, lest he fall asleep. Then one of the execs ducked in, his cell phone glued to his ear. He interrupted the gawky reporter in mid sentence, and said, "They LOVED it in Austin."

"Loved it?" Zach said, grinning.

"Standing fucking ovation," the exec said.

"Holy shit, yes," said Chris, half leaping from his seat.

They'd shown the movie to a group of Trekkies in Austin, luring them with the promise of the Wrath of Khan on big screen. Mr. Nimoy had been there. They'd all been nervous; this was the first time it was being shown to an audience not specially selected and screened by the studio. The news that it had gone well was like a tonic, was the best news they'd had all day, in a week, maybe in years.

The interview came to a rapid conclusion. The exec elaborated, told them exactly how well it had gone, how people were raving about it on Twitter, of all places. Chris laughed like a fool. His eyes were blazing. Zach chastised himself and made a note never to gaze at Chris's eyes. Cho and Karl burst out of the other room. Everyone was exultant. They'd all been a little afraid, probably were still a little afraid but this was fucking awesome.Cho was giving high-fives.

At the hotel, they took over the bar on the first floor. JJ was drinking diet Coke only but acting more drunk than anyone, plying them all with alcohol. Zach was on his third gin and tonic. Zoe was trying to persuade him to dance. He was resisting, but the alcohol was wearing at his defenses. The floor was gorgeous dark stone. Zach wore leather-soled shoes and worried that he might slip. He did not have innate grace.

"Dance, Zachary," Zoe said. She was pliant and gorgeous in a teal dress. "Be a gentleman."

"Ah," Chris said, sweeping up behind Zoe, taking her by the hand and spinning her. "But he's not."

Zach chuckled but was not sure if he should be offended. Chris had taken off his tie and his sweater and the top two buttons of his shirt were undone. He danced off, his hand on Zoe's waist, an arm on her back. Zoe wobbled in her stilettos. They disappeared into the crowd. Zach turned his attention to his drink. Often he was gregarious, but tonight he was in a mood and if he drank more he might get maudlin or very angry. He drained his glass, looked around, thought that he would probably not be missed, and headed towards the elevator. He stood impatiently in the foyer. The hotel was kind of gauche, he thought, with mirrors in heavy gilt frames and cut glass chandeliers.

Someone caught him by the wrist. He turned. It was Chris.

"I didn't mean to cut in on you," he said.

The elevator came. They got in, stood shoulder to shoulder at the back. The interior was paneled with mirror.

Zach laughed. "I don't dance," he said.

Chris frowned at him. "That's a lie."

"I don't waltz with Zoe."

"Ah," Chris said. "I see." His eyes were gleeful, squinty. "So you must have wanted to waltz with me."

He took Zach's hand. Zach could have dug in his heels but he let himself be pulled close, until they were chest to chest. Chris's skin was rough. Zach rolled his eyes. Chris's hand was shockingly warm on his waist. They waltzed once around the elevator, twice. Both knew the steps. Chris's breath was sweet.

"You've been drinking," Zach said, accusingly.

"And so have you," Chris said.

They were just nearly the same height. Zach felt the brush of stubble on his cheek. He turned. Chris was watching him. He could see every pore, every whisker, the fine dark fan of his eyelashes ...

The elevator slowed to a stop. They sprang apart. The door opened. A shrivelled old woman in terrible fur coat got on. Zach wanted to lecture her about animal cruelty, but doubted he was capable of coherent speech. He stared at the toes of his shoes. He checked the time. He watched the woman fumble through her purse for a tissue. He looked up and met Chris's gaze in the mirrored elevator door. Chris smiled then, sweet, sly, slow.

***

Sure, Zach dated, but only in the most casual way, and he never dated famous men. That was so obviously a terrible idea he was never even tempted. Okay, Chris wasn't really what you could call famous, but he would probably become so if the movie did well. The real problem was that Zach had a crush on him. Normally, when he liked someone enough that it made him dopey, he broke it off immediately and never looked back. Unfortunately, his future association with Chris seemed guaranteed for at least two more films. So the real problem was that Zach had a crush on Chris, but couldn't do anything about it but ruthlessly suppress, suppress, suppress. Chris did not make that easy.

He read a used copy of Lady Chatterley's Lover during set ups, annotating the pages, smudging his fingertips and drawing the ire of the makeup people. If he wore his glasses, he looked downright scholarly. Zach knew he'd gone to Berkeley, knew he'd studied in England. There was too much to recommend about him. He had a somewhat unfortunate habit of wearing the same three shirts when not in costume, but all the shirts looked good, so what could Zach say? He liked to skeet shoot, which was weird but not really objectionable, and could kind of sing. He'd acted off Broadway, to some acclaim. He was a very handsome man, but he was not perfect. But all that meant was that he possibly was perfect, or at least too much for Zach to resist.

Evasive maneuvers needed to be taken.

His shaved eyebrows ended up being a blessing in disguise, a perfect excuse to refuse invitations. He honestly didn't care, didn't really mind the look, but found the ruse useful. He was as sociable as courtesy demanded, but not much more. Still, when he had to rehearse the choreography for fight scenes with Chris he made sure to jerk off the night before and sometimes the morning of and spent most of the day a wreck of nerves. He laughed at Chris's jokes but in a way he hoped said that he found them a little juvenile. Well, they were, but also very charming. It was possibly a Sisyphean undertaking. Chris was no less friendly. Zach liked him no less.

After shooting ended they all had a good time at the wrap party, drank a little too much, were all genuinely sad to part. It was the truth. Still, Chris made sure Zach had his cell phone number, programed it in his phone himself, and told him they would hang out. It was a command, not a request. After all, they lived in the same neighborhood! Zach smiled and hugged him and clapped him on the back and said yes, sure, of course.

But the show was filming after that, and that kept him busy. He screened Chris's calls, answered only every third, refused half of his invitations. When they did get together, it was painfully good, always the best time, which just steeled Zach for the inevitable let down. Zach pretended to be consumed by his career, by trivial things, had to take the dog to the vet or wait for an electrician. He thought of Chris often, but they saw each other less and less frequently. He did not know how, but he resolved that by the time they did promotion for the film, he would be over it, over Chris, ready to be nothing more than best buddies, if that.

In his heart he doubted that was possible. There could be no lessening of such great affection.

***

The flight to New Zealand was like something out of a Terry Gilliam film -- fright and wonder and monstrosity. It didn't help that there were so many of them. Karl had gotten his hands on a toyphaser with realistic sound effects, and had somehow snuck it on the plane. Zach was waiting for some sort of Australian anti-terrorism swat team to storm the cabin and lead them all away in handcuffs. The shrill zip-zip noise the toy made was intolerable, but Karl was so happy that nobody would take it away. Then his seat was taken and there was a drawn out and improbable game of musical chairs. Zach ended up with a seat right in the middle of an aisle, right in the middle of the plane, of course. This was a commuter plane, so Zach's knees were pressed against the back of the seat in front of him. He didn't know how Bana was managing -- maybe they would let him sit in the aisle. It wouldn't have been entirely surprising.

Chris dropped into the seat beside him, wearing a plaid shirt, flip-flops, and sunglasses. Zach reached over and plucked the sunglasses off his face.

"Not on the plane, Christopher," he said. He looked him over, then asked, "Good God, what time did you get to sleep?"

"Didn't," Chris said. "Closed out the bar with Simon and Karl. Don't know how the hell he's so chipper right now." He made a sad, pitiful expression. "I haven't even have any coffee."

Zach rolled his eyes and let Chris stew in his hangover. There were an alarmingly high number of children on the plane. Children made him nervous; they were too unpredictable. Chris sometimes made him nervous for the same reason. They took off. The person in front of him reclined in their seat. Zach's knees suffered untold indignities. He doubted he could have stood if he'd wanted to. Chris moaned and grumbled beside him. They hadn't really talked the night before. The premiere had been wonderful, beautiful, solemn. Zach in his wildest dreams had never imagined a more perfect night, with more perfect people, but with all the noise and all the to-do they hadn't had a chance to talk. They hadn't really talked since Chris had danced with him in the elevator, although Zach remembered with unbearable clarity the feeling of Chris's hand on his waist, the feeling of Chris's cheek against his own, the ways his eyes had looked so close.

When the flight attendants came around JJ stood and announced that drinks were on Paramount. Everyone cheered. Chris ordered a coffee and a beer.

"Honestly?" Zach asked. He had been planning on asking for a Bloody Mary, but self-righteously decided to drink only water. Chris shrugged and stirred his coffee.

Two seats to Zach's left, Cho was making another flight attendant laugh raucously. Funny motherfucker. Zach was not in a great mood. He took out his crossword puzzles. He sped through them, generally, except when there were stupid clues about things like opera or tennis or Latin that no functioning member of society had any reason to know about. He made good progress but then got stuck on 14-Down 'Troutlike fish'. What did Zach know about fish? He'd never gone fishing in his life; and if pressed might have said he found it kind of barbarous. He skipped that one, but couldn't get 21-Across 'Old English length' either. Damn.

Chris leaned over. He squinted. "That's ell," he said.

"What?" Zach asked.

"That one," Chris said. He pointed. "E - L - L."

It fit. Zach penned it in lightly, prepared to write over it if Chris was wrong. He kind of secretly hoped Chris was wrong.

"31-Across is 'Cubs'," Chris said. Zach looked. It fit. He wrote it in. Chris was practically resting his chin on Zach's shoulder. He reached over to grab the pen, was basically hugging Zach on a plane surrounded by all their friends and associates.

"Okay," Zach said. "Listen, you can't do this."

Chris sat back with thud.

"The crossword puzzle?" he said grumpily. "Fine. I'm sorry if I'm threatening your crossword prowess ..."

"No," Zach said. "That's not what I mean. You can't pretend to flirt with me any more."

Chris made a sudden amused noise and smiled. His eyes went crinkly. Zach's heart fluttered. It wasn't fair.

"What?" Chris asked

"You can't do this to me any more," Zach said. "It's not fair."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Chris said, frowning. When he did, his forehead wrinkled. Zach found even that adorable. It was bad, bad, bad; all of it.

"Listen," Zach hissed, leaning perhaps too close. "Stop messing with me. You can't pretend to like me any more. You just have to stop, and if you don't, we can't be friends any more because I like you too much."

Chris turned to stare at him, looking quizzical. His eyes were so blue. God. If they ever spoke to each other again after all of this, Zach was going to get him a pair of mud-colored contacts for Christmas. That would level the playing field. Zach closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead with his fist. He had the beginnings of a painful headache. He needed something a hell of a lot stronger than water.

"Did we become thirteen year old girls when I wasn't looking?" Chris asked, amused. "Did I miss the note you asked Yelchin to pass me in gym class?"

Zach huffed in frustration. "Don't make light of this," he said. "You don't understand. I was twenty two years old when I decided that my career came before my love life, and I've never let the latter come in the way of the former, but you're driving me crazy. I don't know why you're doing it, but if something doesn't give I'm probably going to end up having a mental break or being photographed giving some unsavory Eurotrash a blowjob in the bathroom of a gay bar in Madrid ..."

"Woah, Zach, calm down," Chris said. His expression was grave. "I don't know why you think my intentions are anything other than pure." He shifted, almost imperceptibly, and their hands touched.

"See!" Zach said. He wasn't whispering any longer. "You're still doing it. Oh god." He scrubbed his face with his hands.

"Doing what?" Chris asked. His face went blank for a moment. Then he smirked devilishly. "Well, I know exactly what I'm doing."

Zach was almost sure this was an hallucination. He stared at Chris in horror. "You have a girlfriend," he said.

"Do not," Chris said. "We broke up."

"What?" Zach said. "When? You didn't tell me!" And Chris was supposed to be his friend!

Chris's eyes widened. "I thought it would have been obvious."

"Obvious? How obvious? I'm not really capable of Vulcan mind melds!"

"Indoor voice, Zach!" Cho called, from two seats down.

Zach closed his eyes and began taking deep, yogic breaths. He counted down from ten, and opened his eyes. Chris was still watching him intently.

"I broke up with Beau," he said. "Before we left. I told her there was someone else."

Zach stared.

"I should have done it earlier," Chris said, smiling. "There's been someone else ... for a while."

Zach said, "If this weren't a practical joke on the cosmic level, I would tell you that that was the worst pick up like I've ever heard. As it is, I'm done talking to you, Christopher Pine, for the sake of my sanity."

Chris laughed, loud and sudden. He smiled, 120 watts, made the crinkly eyes, was completely unbearably perfect. Zach stared at thewhisps of red hair protruding over the headrest of the accursed seat in front of him with a scowl on his face.

"I promise you," Chris said. "I'm not joking."

***

So Zach couldn't really not talk to him at all. They had hours of interviews together every day. Paramount wanted to work the Kirk & Spock angle, to Zach's great misfortune. He did his best to display his sardonic wit to Chris's disadvantage, and made sure to bring up everyembarassing situation he could recall from set. When he ran out, he manufactured some on the spot. Chris retaliated by sitting as near as physically possible to him as he could short sitting in Zach's lap, by slapping him on the knee, by patting him on the back, by singing Zach's praises and generally by being charming and wonderful. He was a devious opponent.

The others noticed. JJ, the consumate professional, asked him if it was anything he needed to be concerned about. Zach assured him it was not. Karl noticed he was down and tried to cheer him by telling him bad Star Trek jokes he'd culled frominternet mailing lists: only Karl's enthusiasm kept that exercise from being unbearable. Zoe sat beside him on the flight from Kuwait to Paris. She was gorgeous. She was smart. Zach had sworn early on he'd never put a girl through the indignity of having to be his fake date, but he wondered if Zoe would agree to be his platonic life partner.

Halfway through the flight she turned to him and said, "So, there's trouble in paradise."

"What?" Zach asked.

"You and Chris have had a lovers' spat," she said.

"It's not a lovers' spat!" Zach said. "There are no lovers! Why are you all doing this to me?"

Momentarily she looked confused. "You two aren't ... ?"

"You thought we were?" Zach asked, horrified.

"We all thought ...," she said.

"No!" Zach said. "I don't date actors, and he's straight!"

She gave him a no-nonsense look. "Really, Zach?"

"What?" he asked, defensively.

"Really?" she asked.

He grumbled.

"Don't play dumb with me," she said. "He's over the moon for you."

Zach paused. "Was that supposed to be a joke?" he asked.

"Yeah, kinda," Zoe admitted. "Didn't work, huh?"

"No," Zach said. "Good try though."

***

One of Chris's bags got lost, the one with his suits, and Zach found him in the lobby of the hotel before the premiere wearing an ill-fitting blue blazer and old man jeans. Zach still wasn't talking to him, but he was a little appalled. Chris dressed well; he admired that. Chris had to protect his reputation. Zach made an tremendous sacrifice; he went upstairs and got changed. He wore jeans too; albeit not a pair that looked like they belonged to a science teacher. On the red carpet, they stood beside each other and tried to look the part of heroes for the cameras. It was never to be spoken of again but they'd practiced that look one night after filming in the small bathroom with avocado-colored tile in Chris's apartment in Silver Lake. Either of them could call up upon demand hero face #8 - Dashing but irascible.

Zach hissed in Chris's ear, "Why are you dressed like Jerry Seinfeld?"

"Fuck off," Chris said, without the smile ever leaving his face.

Zach laughed and laughed. It was great fun. The French were an affectionate people. Young women demanded kisses on the cheek. Zach gamely obliged. As was their custom by now, they didn't stick around for the screening. It was glorious to drive through Paris on a spring evening. The city was bejeweled. By the time he got back to the hotel, Simon and Karl and Eric were already in a celebratory mood, by which Zach meant they were already a little drunk. He joined them, had a glass of red wine. It was very good. He had another in quick succession. It was unlike anything he'd ever done, this globetrotting, this high profile movie starring. He would be lying if he said it was a chore. It was wonderful, but he was very tired and felt a little like he'd walked into an episode of Gossip Girl, unawares. He hoped at the very least he got to be Chuck.

By the time Zach was staring at the crimson residue at the bottom of his third glass of wine, it was nearly ten o'clock, but still Chris had not appeared. Time of course did not mean much because they'd crossed the date line and come back. They laughed in the face of time zones. Zoe was standing at the bar holding a pink drink in a fluted glass. He went up beside her, kissed her on the cheek.

"Congratulations!" he said, giddy. Oh, he was in a good mood.

"Congratulations to you," she said.

"I want to go out later," he said. "Let's go out on the town."

"Someone's happy," she said. She looked him up and down. "Where's your boy?"

"Don't know," Zach said. "He was in a mood tonight."

"If it's not the one of you it's the other," Zoe said. "I saw him go upstairs."

Zach couldn't help it. He glanced towards the door.

"Go get him," she said. Her eyes shone, like she was nearly at the point of laughter. "If you end up going out later, come and find me."

They were staying on the top floor, the ninth floor. He rode up in the elevator, impatient. It was rickety and slow. But the hotel was gorgeous, stately, dating from the Belle Epoque. There was a book in the lobby documenting the history that Zach had read with some interest their first morning there. He would have been content to never leave. He found the door to Chris's room ajar. He did not knock. He was bold from the wine, and happy. He went in. Chris was face down on his bed, wearing nothing but a pair of black briefs and a worn tee shirt that pulled just a little across his shoulders.

The scenario was a little preposterous. Chris didn't move. For a fraction of a second Zach was frozen with a jolt of fear. His life was increasingly cinematic in scope; in a movie, Chris would be OD'ed or have slit his wrists. Instead he rolled slowly over and propped himself up on one elbow, a warped image of an Odalisque.

"Well, hello," he said, lazily. "Have you come to take advantage of me?"

Zach was barely breathing. He pointedly looked only at Chris's face. "What are you doing?"

"I was in a foul mood," Chris said. "You're not the only one who can go temporarily insane. I couldn't face another party."

"Oh," Zach said.

"I feel better now," Chris said, spritely, sitting up with his legs hanging over the side of the bed.

"I want ..." Zach said. "Let's go out. It's Paris. Let's go out with Zoe."

Chris laughed, giddy. "You've had a lot to drink!"

"Some," Zach said. He hadn't had much, really, but the wine had been strong.

Chris looked thoughtful for a moment, stroked his chin, considering. "I think I could be amenable to your proposal, Mr. Quinto." He stood. "Let me dress."

He took off his shirt and knelt to rummage through the bags that had managed to make the journey from the Middle East. Shirts flew across the room as he discarded them. He pulled on a pair of jeans, left them unbuttoned, tried on one shirt, then another. It was mildly pornographic. Zach probably should have looked away, given Chris's state of undress. He stared at the prints on the walls, reproductions of circus posters from a long time ago. If they hadn't had to leave tomorrow he would have tried to go to the circus. Even that sounded like a good idea.

Chris was dressed when Zach looked up. He was wearing a white shirt, a plaid jacket.

"My god, do you have a promotional contract with the Scottish Highlands Tartan Association?" Zach said.

Chris said, "I'm the official spokesperson." He grabbed his sunglasses from the bedside table. "Do I have your seal of approval?"

"Yes," Zach said.

Chris beamed and grabbed his hand and pulled him bodily out the door.

They could not or would not spare the time to wait for the elevator. They raced down the stairs. Zach felt his feet may have grown suddenly larger because he could hardly stay upright. He stumbled at one point; Chris caught him with an arm around the waist. Zach wished he'd had the chance to get changed. They strode across the lobby. In the bar, it was all good times. Zoe was visible instantly, lovely in grey. Zach didn't care that Chris's arm was still around his waist, felt exempt from such concern tonight. He waved to Zoe from across the room. She saw, shook her head, motioned subtly to her left, where a tall and very handsome man stood. Chris glanced at him. Zach laughed. They left without her.

Out they went into the dark and lovely Paris night. They were anonymous. The buildings were tall and sombre. They hailed a cab. Neither spoke French. Zach conveyed by dint of extravagant hand gestures where it was they wanted to go. In the cab they sat pressed up against one another. Chris stared at the window. He'd been to Paris before. Zach knew he had, but he was enraptured. They crossed the Seine, spied from afar Sacre Coeur, white and lovely on the hill. The Eiffel Tower was tacky and glorious, a Las Vegas monument dropped into the middle of a more graceful city. The cab deposited them on the corner of a wide boulevard, alive with couples walking arm in arm and cafes that seemed almost too charming to be real. Yes, that was what it seemed like, a little. This was scenery; this was film. Zach could relax into Chris's embrace because this was not real life. They admired beautiful watches on display in a storefront window. They found a likely bar. Down three stairs they went and they paid a beautiful woman in a lace dress five Euro a piece cover.

The ceilings were low and brass torchieres glowed golden on the walls. The music was strange and alive. Zach had heard nothing like it. Chris went to the bar, parting the crowd, smiled his lazy smile at the bartender. He got them served right away. A banquette upholstered in red velvet ran the perimeter of the room. They sat in the corner. The crowd was so lovely, more lovely than any he'd seen in Los Angeles or New York. And people seemed happy, were glad just to dance and be out in the night. He was happy, and Chris was happy. This was what he had wanted, never what he had feared.

"If it was always tonight, I would be fine," he said.

"Tonight's tonight," Chris said. "And tomorrow will be tomorrow." Oh, he was sparkling.

"So profound," Zach said, mockingly.

A tall woman with olive skin approached them and for a second Zach thought she was a fan, but that thought became ludicrous the moment he thought it. She asked them if they had the time. Zach did, and told her. She said she'd just come in from Goa. Zach thought vaguely that was in Asia, or the Caribbean, but couldn't have said for sure. Chris slid an arm around Zach's shoulder, drained his drink. The woman glanced at the two of them, smiled in defeat.

"I can't believe you just did that," Zach said, laughing, because it was all funny and grand. "Dude, I am not your woman."

Chris dissolved into laughter, laughed so hard his face turned bright red, and when Zach pointed it out, laughed only harder. He slid off his seat, took Zach's hand. "Dance with me?" he asked, and Zach hesitated, but never really thought of saying anything but yes. Chris pulled him forward, into the press of the crowd on the dance floor, and they danced, possibly looking kind of foolish, but Zach did not care. The laughter was a marvel. He was breathless. He was very drunk. Another song started playing. The beat was like a drug. Zach drew Chris closer, so they were arm in arm. He did not care much who saw.

***

It wasn't Chris's first audition. He'd auditioned months ago, even before Zach had been cast, and from what Zach heard hadn't made a very good impression. Zach didn't know why JJ was giving him another shot.

He was testing with the scene during which Kirk was accused of cheating on the Kobayashi Maru test. Chris wore a black shirt, tight back slacks. His hair was dark, would have to be dyed if he got the part, and his eyes were blue. Shatner had dark eyes. He slouched a little, but was exceedingly polite as he said hello to JJ, to the executives, to April and Alyssa from casting. When he shook hands with Zach, he grinned like he'd won some kind of prize.

The room was silent. Chris stepped forward, stood up straight, seemed instantly brighter, more electric.

"I believe I have the right to face my accuser directly," he said. His voice was confident, proud, nervous.

"Cadet Kirk," Zach said. "Much time was spent assessing relevant information following your recent taking of the test in question. Upon careful review, it became clear that you activated a subroutine that had been embedded in the programming code, an insertion that somehow succeeded in evading all protective firewalls and resets, thereby changing the conditions of the test."

"Your point being?"

"In academic vernacular," Zach said. "You cheated."

Chris was still but he bristled. JJ sat at the edge of his seat, grinning. It was good. It had never been this good with any of the actors. There was an undeniable challenge in Chris's stare.

"The test's rigged, isn't it?" Chris drawled. "You programmed it to be unwinnable. Well, I don't believe in no-win scenarios."

***

They didn't actually see the movie until the night of the premiere in L.A. It was a night that was superlatively more unreal than any of the many unreal nights that had preceeded it. It was incredible. And the movie had been so good. Zach was not sure he'd ever been prouder of his involvement in anything, had certainly never been involved in any effort that seemed more Herculean. Afterwards, much, much later, in the early hours of the morning, Zach was laying on his back on Chris's bed, his head hanging off the end.

"Good job, Captain Kirk," he said.

Chris looked up. He lay on the floor. In his glasses, he looked owlish, strange. He raised his bottle of IPA in a toast. "Thank you, Mr. Spock."

"Still think you made the right choice?" Zach asked. "You could be fucking George Clooney right now. I've heard things about him."

Chris laughed. "You still don't get it," he said. "I knew I'd take the role from the minute they offered it. I knew I'd take it the minute I knew you were playing Spock."

Zach might have blushed, red running up the back of his neck and coloring his ears, but he said, "I'm not sure I believe you."

Chris sat up, grinning. "I'm not sure if I care," he said, and he turned so they were facing each other, although Zach was upside-down, and kissed him well.

THE END


End file.
